The Tournament

by Matthew Reilly

  ‘It is not hard to heat up two stones in a fire or cool two others in snow. They still look like rocks to the crowd. I suspect His Majesty wanted his royal cousin, Zaman, to play in the first match of the tournament and to have an easy opponent. I also suspect that he did not want Zaman to be on the same side of the draw as the people’s champion, Ibrahim. He does not want his two local heroes to clash, which is probably why Ibrahim also drew a very tough opponent in the Prussian, Wilhelm. The Sultan looks after his royal relative.’

  My teacher moved away from the bench. I shook my head as I followed him. ‘You know, sir, sometimes I fear that you are too curious for your own good.’

  ‘Sometimes I do, too,’ he replied as we returned to our seats to await the first match of the tournament.

  THE FIRST MATCH

  AN EERIE HUSH GRIPPED the hall of the Hagia Sophia. It was unnerving to see so gargantuan a space filled with so many spectators yet be so perfectly still and silent.

  In the centre of the massive hall, surrounded by the enormous crowd, sat the Sultan’s champion, Zaman, and Maximilian of Vienna, a stiff-backed Austrian with a small pointed moustache trimmed in the style popular in Austria in those days. High above them sat the Sultan, who had returned to his throne eager to observe the first match of his historic tournament.

  The match began and the crowd watched it with rapt intensity. Every move was followed by a ripple of hushed whispers. The people of Constantinople certainly loved their chess.

  As the sadrazam had explained the previous evening, each match was composed of seven games; the first player to win four games won the match.

  I sat with Mr Ascham, Mr Giles and Elsie in the special seats reserved for players and their companions on the Sultan’s stage. About halfway through the first game, Mr Giles leaned over to Mr Ascham and whispered, ‘This will be a short match. Zaman has Maximilian’s measure. The Austrian is out of his depth.’

  Sure enough, the first game finished within half an hour, with Zaman mating his opponent without losing a major piece. The second game was over even faster—as soon as Zaman took Maximilian’s queen, the Austrian floundered and in his desperation lost first his bishops then his knights, then his rooks. After less than an hour of play, Zaman was leading two games to nil.

  As the third game commenced and Zaman took an early lead, I noticed that my teacher was not watching the board at all. Rather, he was observing Cardinal Cardoza, who sat at the opposite end of the royal stage watching the match with profound disinterest. He was flanked by some junior visiting priests from Rome who looked equally bored.

  My teacher’s eyes narrowed. He was thinking about something.

  ‘What is it?’ I whispered.

  ‘The two cardinals took their dinner in the embassy . . .’ Mr Ascham said softly.

  ‘So?’

  My teacher kept staring at the cardinal. ‘The rash . . . the swelling of the tongue . . . Elephant’s Ear . . .’

  He stood up abruptly. ‘I have to go.’

  When he rose, so did Latif nearby.

  ‘Where are you going?’ I hissed, but my teacher was already leaving so I hurried after him, out of the hall, back toward the palace.

  Mr Ascham strode purposefully back through the main gates of Topkapi Palace and headed quickly up the tree-lined path that led to the inner Gate of Salutation.

  ‘Can you please explain to me what you are doing?’ I pleaded as I struggled to keep up with him.

  ‘Do you remember when we saw the dead cardinal’s body last night?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Do you recall the rash inside his mouth? And his swollen tongue?’

  ‘Yes . . .’

  ‘There is a poisonous plant called the Elephant’s Ear which is known to cause rashes around the mouth, and if ingested in large quantities will cause the victim’s tongue to swell to such an extent that it will block the air passage to his throat and suffocate him.’

  ‘Wait. Are you saying that Cardinal Farnese was killed by some poison?’

  ‘I believe so, yes.’

  ‘Forgive me,’ I said, ‘but what about the stab wounds all over his body? Don’t you think they might have played a substantial role in his death?’

  ‘The cardinal was already dead when he was stabbed so energetically,’ Mr Ascham said simply.

  ‘How do you know this?’

  ‘Because the cardinal’s many stab wounds did not bleed. When its heart has already stopped, a body will not bleed when it is pierced. A live man stabbed so many times and in such a frenzy would have bled copiously—Lord, it would have been a bloodbath—but you told me yourself there was little blood around the pool in which Cardinal Farnese was found. For a man stabbed so vigorously, there should have been great swathes of blood around that pool—even if his killer had carried him to the pool on his shoulders, there should have been some kind of trail of dripping blood. But there was none. When we went to call upon Cardinal Cardoza earlier today, I examined the grounds around the Catholic embassy and found no trace of blood on the surrounding grass. Had the cardinal been stabbed to death inside that building, there would have been at least some blood left on the ground as he was conveyed away.’

  ‘Perhaps our killer is more careful than you think,’ I said. ‘Perhaps he cleaned up the blood trail, or perhaps he conveyed the body from the embassy in a wagon, or perhaps he did not kill the cardinal in the embassy at all.’

  Mr Ascham nodded as we passed through the Gate of Salutation and headed across the Second Courtyard.

  ‘All good points, Bess. All very good points. Nevertheless, I still believe Cardinal Farnese was dead when he was stabbed.’

  ‘Why!’

  ‘Because he offered no defence against his frenzied attacker.’

  I stopped walking. ‘How can you possibly know this?’ My teacher did not stop. He kept walking. I hurried after him. ‘How can you know this?’ I repeated.

  ‘When we saw the cardinal’s corpse in the dungeon, did you happen to notice his hands?’ Mr Ascham asked.

  ‘Yes. They were pudgy, grey and pale, and otherwise completely normal.’

  ‘Precisely. In the face of such a violent attack, wouldn’t even the weakest man raise his hands in some form of defence and consequently receive cuts to his upraised palms? Yet the cardinal’s hands were completely unmarked. A dead man offers no defence. Hence, my conclusion.’

  I fell silent. It was actually rather sound logic.

  ‘All right, then. So why stab the cardinal so many times if he was already dead?’ I asked.

  My teacher turned to face me as we walked.

  ‘To throw us off the scent,’ he said. ‘Like the flaying of the face, the stabbing was a ruse designed to lead the casual investigator to conclude that the cardinal was killed by the insane fiend. It was done to conceal the identity of the cardinal’s true killer. Unfortunately for the killer, he could not know that the insane fiend was locked in the Sultan’s dungeon at the time.’

  I was beginning to see that the unravelling of this matter was giving my teacher a peculiar kind of thrill. I honestly think he enjoyed pitting his wits against those of the murderer. When he went on, he spoke quickly and with enthusiasm.

  ‘If we accept that the cardinal was poisoned, we must now ask how: how was he poisoned? You will recall Cardinal Cardoza left the banquet to take his dinner in his embassy with Cardinal Farnese. I think the poison that killed Cardinal Farnese was slipped into his meal, a meal that was prepared in the kitchens and taken to the Catholic embassy. Which is why I must speak with the chef, Brunello of Borgia, right this instant.’

  It was only then that I realised that we had crossed the Second Courtyard and arrived at the kitchens.

  My teacher hurried into the kitchen area, barging through wafts of steam and passing by several slaughter rooms as the apron-wearing slaughterers inside them flung water across their chopping blocks, washing away blood.

  A small group of servants was gathered in the doorway of the fart
hest slaughter room, at the rearmost corner of the kitchen.

  ‘Oh, no . . .’ Mr Ascham quickened his stride. ‘No . . .’

  We came to the doorway in question, my teacher pushing through the group of aghast kitchen hands.

  We stopped dead in our tracks.

  The room was filled with six large sides of beef, hanging in a row from meat hooks, and hanging with them, their crooked necks bent at horrible angles in separate nooses, were the bodies of Brunello of Borgia and his wife, Marianna.

  TWO MORE VICTIMS

  THE SMALL CROWD THAT was gathered in the doorway of the slaughter room consisted of a cook, three slave boys and two servant girls.

  With a loud boom, the door behind us suddenly slammed shut. I spun. Latif had closed it, sealing us all inside.

  Latif glared at the slaves as he spoke in common Greek: ‘Not a word shall be spoken of this until the Sultan has been informed.’ He thrust his head outside the door and called for some guards. Then he stood in front of the door, blocking the way—evidently, none of us would even be allowed to leave until the Sultan had been advised about the situation, which could be some time, since he was at that moment still watching the opening match. Our escort clearly had orders of his own to follow.

  My teacher sighed. He gazed up at the suspended bodies of Brunello and Marianna.

  I said, ‘When we met Brunello last night, he did not strike me as melancholy or prone to taking his own life.’

  ‘I thought similarly,’ my teacher said. ‘Are we to assume that for some reason he poisoned a high-ranking visiting cardinal and then, in a fit of remorse, killed himself?’

  ‘I fear I am still trying to catch up with your reasoning about Brunello poisoning Cardinal Farnese,’ I said.

  Mr Ascham leaned around and behind Brunello’s body and peered up at the dead chef’s hands. ‘That the cardinal was poisoned we can deduce from the rash in his mouth and the swelling of his tongue,’ he explained without looking at me. ‘That he was poisoned by Brunello, well, I am deducing that from the fact that the meal that poisoned Cardinal Farnese was brought to his rooms from the kitchens where it had been prepared by Brunello, the Christian chef in charge of meals for visiting dignitaries with weak stomachs.’

  ‘Ah . . .’

  ‘And yet now the murderer would appear to have hanged himself,’ Mr Ascham said. ‘The question is, why would he do such a thing?’

  ‘All right. Why would he?’

  Mr Ascham nodded silently at the dead man’s wrists. I followed his eyeline. Red rope burns could be discerned there. I saw similar marks on Marianna’s wrists.

  Mr Ascham whispered: ‘Their hands were bound when they were hanged, and then after it was done, the bonds were removed. The good chef and his wife did not kill themselves at all.’

  My eyes widened. ‘But then that would mean—’

  ‘Let us keep our counsel to ourselves for a while, Bess. At least until the Sultan gets here. This palace, it would seem, hides many secrets and I think we have only scratched the surface.’

  An hour passed. I assumed the Sultan was busy enjoying Zaman’s match and would not come to the kitchens until it was finished. The slaughter room had a rank odour—I was not sure if it stemmed from previous slaughters or the bodies or both.

  My teacher and I sat on the floor facing the six kitchen hands. Like us, their only crime, as far as I could see, had been to see the dead couple.

  Only Latif stood. He still guarded the door.

  At one stage, Mr Ascham rose and walked in a full circle around the two hanging bodies. Oddly, though, he did not look up at them. Rather, he walked with his head bent, peering at the floor.

  I went over to him. ‘Whatever are you doing?’

  He crouched low. The floor in the centre of the room was covered in a ghastly layer of sawdust intermixed with dried animal blood. The foul mush felt soft under my feet, like mud. Many overlapping footprints, including our own, could be discerned in the mixture.

  ‘Sandals mainly,’ Mr Ascham said. ‘Leather-soled sandals of the kind worn by the kitchen hands. But in several places I see this footprint, made by a flat wooden sole with a nick in it between the big toe and the second toe, a prominent V-shaped nick. It is the wearer’s left shoe. Wooden sandals are a more expensive kind of shoe, worn by someone of moderate status.’

  ‘Why do you say moderate status?’

  ‘Because, dear Bess, if the wearer was a person of high status, he could afford to buy new shoes or at least mend his nicked sandal.’ My teacher turned to the others in the room. ‘Latif. May I see everyone’s shoes, please? Yours, too.’

  Upon examination, he found that all six of the kitchen workers in that room wore basic leather-soled sandals, so the print had not been made by any of them. Only Latif wore sandals with solid wooden soles, but his left one bore no incriminating nick.

  ‘Am I above suspicion now?’ Latif asked as he lowered his foot back to the ground.

  ‘No,’ Mr Ascham answered flatly. ‘Nobody is above suspicion, least of all anyone who keeps me confined in a room against my will.’

  ‘I serve the Sultan’s interests, not yours.’

  ‘Believe me, I am keenly aware of that.’

  Mr Ascham then stepped over to the body of Brunello’s wife, Marianna, and looked thoughtfully up at her. He reached up and touched the rosary beads looped around her neck, examining the black bow tied to them.

  He turned to face the kitchen hands and spoke in Greek. ‘Do any of you speak Greek?’

  One of the servant girls nodded. She said her name was Sasha and that she had lived in Macedonia before she’d been captured by an Ottoman force and brought to Constantinople.

  Mr Ascham said, ‘The chef’s wife wore a black ribbon on her rosary beads, which means she was mourning someone. For whom did she mourn?’

  ‘Her son,’ the girl said.

  ‘Her son? But we met him only last night.’

  ‘No, you would have met Pietro, their older boy. The one who died was their younger son, Benicio. He was a quiet boy, a sweet little angel with the most beautiful snow-white hair, but he was slow, of diminished mind. He was only twelve years of age but two weeks ago, he killed himself. He was found in one of these slaughter rooms with his wrists slashed.’

  ‘A boy of twelve committed suicide?’ my teacher said. ‘Suicide is very rare in children so young.’

  ‘We were all surprised and most upset. Slow though he was, little Benicio was a lovely boy, gentle, well liked in the kitchens. He had a round smiling face and was a little fat because of all the trimmings the chefs would slip him. That the little angel even knew how to kill anything, let alone his own earthly body, came as a shock to us all.’

  ‘How did Brunello and his wife cope with his death?’ Mr Ascham asked.

  ‘Marianna was devastated. She cried for days. Brunello was also upset but he was busy preparing the many banquets for the Sultan’s tournament. He became quick to anger, shouting at us for small transgressions. He even lost his temper with Cardinal Cardoza, shouting at the cardinal when he came into the kitchens one day, but I do not know what caused that outburst.’

  ‘Brunello raised his voice to Cardinal Cardoza?’ my teacher said. ‘Tell me, have you or any of the others here seen Brunello meeting or conversing overmuch with any of the visiting players or dignitaries this past week?’

  The slave girl relayed the question to the others in the room in Turkish. The cook answered her.

  Sasha translated: ‘He says that Brunello had four separate visits from the Austrian player, Maximilian of Vienna, in the days before the opening banquet. He would arrive with a young girl, the one the Austrians later gave as a gift to His Majesty, the Sultan.’

  ‘Helena,’ I said.

  ‘Is it known what they discussed?’ Mr Ascham asked.

  Sasha asked the cook. He shook his head. ‘No, he does not know what they talked about.’

  Some time later, I could not tell exactly how long, the door to t
he slaughter room opened and in walked the Sultan, the Grand Vizier, and eight of the Sultan’s personal guards. The kitchen area behind them had been completely cleared. The six kitchen hands in the room all clambered quickly to their feet and stood to attention, gazing meekly at their toes.

  The Sultan peered up at the two hanging bodies—the look on his face more one of annoyance than sadness—before turning his stern gaze at my teacher, then me, then the kitchen hands.

  ‘You six are the only witnesses?’ he asked the workers in Greek.

  Sasha spoke for the group. ‘We are, Your Majesty. I was about to run and tell the palace guards about it when these three’—a nod at Mr Ascham, Latif and me—‘arrived and the eunuch shut us in.’

  The Sultan nodded sagely.

  He turned to my teacher and switched to English. ‘Mr Roger Ascham. Why do I find you here?’

  ‘I made certain deductions, Your Majesty, but I must admit I didn’t expect to find Brunello dead—’

  ‘You may be cleverer than I thought,’ the Sultan cut him off. ‘I might have to watch my own actions around you. You surmised that the chef was connected to the death of the visiting cardinal?’

  ‘I did.’

  ‘And now the murderer is dead by his own hand?’

  Mr Ascham glanced at the kitchen hands nearby, clearly hesitant to speak about his investigations in front of them.

  ‘You may speak freely,’ the Sultan said calmly.

  ‘That is what we are supposed to think, Your Majesty,’ my teacher said. ‘But I do not believe it to be the truth. Rather, I believe the chef and his wife were themselves murdered. The killer is still at large.’

  The Sultan’s eyebrows rose. My teacher said nothing more while the Sultan appraised him. The great king eyed him very, very closely.

  ‘A second and a third murder in my palace,’ he said. ‘This I do not like. Have you any suspicions about these new deaths, Mr Roger Ascham?’

  My teacher said, ‘There is a devious mind at work within these walls, Your Majesty. If each of these murders had been accepted at face value, we would have attributed the death of the cardinal to the insane fiend and these two to suicide. But no, all three killings have been deliberately designed to throw off further investigation. They are connected. Not only are my inquiries thus still unfinished, it is my advice to you to allow me to include the deaths of the chef and his wife in the existing investigation into the killing of Cardinal Farnese.’